“How likely is it that someone might come to the Market with two chairs, a lightweight one and a heavier one?”
Emily’s eyebrows rose. “I suppose it’s possible, but not likely. Well, if I was going out more than once, you know, to a museum or something, I might bring both.”
“If you had to bring just one, is there any reason it would be just the lighter one?”
“No,” replied Emily at once. “If I brought just one—and I did—I’d bring the one I could go shopping in. Now if I were a vendor, that would be different, of course. But any shop-owner in a wheelchair would bring the bigger chair, probably one with a basket.”
“Well, thank you, that’s what we wanted to know.”
“You’re welcome,” said Emily, puzzled. “I hope I helped.”
“Yes, you did.” Betsy stood. “Thanks again.”
Emily looked at Jill inquiringly. Jill just shrugged her own puzzlement and followed Betsy away.
But when they got in the elevator, Jill said, “You think she has a second chair in her suite?”
“If she does . . .”
“Let’s go ask her.”
But Cherry had joined the conspiracy of silence and she refused to even answer the question, much less let them into her suite to see if there was a second chair.
“Now what?” asked Jill.
“Since we’re up here, let’s go look at the scene of the crime.”
“Does it matter?” said Jill.
“I want something more than her overhearing the wrong story Doug told,” said Betsy. “Something physical I can put my finger on.”
Twenty-Three
Sunday, December 16, 11:35 A.M.
Betsy said, “First, let’s see where Lenore and Cherry’s rooms are in relation to where Belle went over.”
Lenore’s room was along one of the long sides, about three doors up from the twin elevators. “So it wasn’t her door Eve saw closing,” remarked Betsy.
“I thought Lenore was off the list.”
“After Cherry got back on, I thought maybe Lenore should be there, too.”
“Maybe Eve was lying about the door,” said Jill. “Some people, if you press them to remember something, make something up.”
“Well, maybe she wasn’t. Cherry’s room is just a few doors down from where Belle went over.”
“Eve’s only got one oar in the water, you know,” said Jill.
Betsy smiled. “No, I think it’s more that her boat’s sprung a leak. Come on.” They walked back down the gallery to the lobby end, and turned to walk along the railing toward the middle.
“She was right about here, close to the center,” said Betsy, stopping. She laid a hand on the railing, gingerly. “Makes my toes ache,” she murmured. “Fingers, too.” She tried looking over without leaning forward, chin up and eyebrows lifted. “Long line for lunch,” she noted, being able to easily see only the other end of the atrium floor. She let her eyes wander up the tiers of galleries, noting the colorful banners hanging over the railings on the lower floors. DMC read one. DRAGON FIRE DESIGNS read another. And there was KREINIK.
Jill came to lean over and look straight down, which made Betsy uncomfortable enough to back away. She kept backing until she went right into a recessed doorway, thumping it loud enough to cause her to step forward hastily, then turn to see if someone inside heard her and thought she was knocking. But no one came to the door.
“That’s Belle’s suite,” said Jill.
“Oh? Oh, well, of course. She came out and went right to the railing to take a look.”
“Could someone just walk right up to her without her noticing?”
“Let me try,” said Betsy quickly, because she didn’t want to be the one standing at the railing. “Go back where you were.”
Jill obediently went back to lean on the railing with widespread hands and Betsy tried coming from different directions without drawing Jill’s attention.
“Well, you can’t come down the long side without me seeing you,” Jill concluded. “So whoever snuck up on her either came up the stairs or out of one of these doors.”
“Only Cherry’s room is along here,” said Betsy. “Lenore’s is along that long side.”
“So if Lenore or Eve did it, she lay in wait, you think?”
“Yes, probably. They all knew which room she was in, didn’t they?”
“Eve did, she asked at the desk. And I’ll wager Cherry did, because Belle initially reserved the room for both of them.”
“What a cruel thing to do!” Betsy snapped. “Cherry couldn’t use the bathroom unless it was specially equipped, and Belle knew that, and knew there were special rooms for her—this was their third Market. Belle was a wicked person, there’s no other word for her. The way she treated all three of them! I’m almost inclined to say good riddance to bad rubbish and just let it go on record as a freak accident.”
“Do you want to do that?”
Betsy thrust her fingers into her hair. “No, I guess not,” she grumbled. “I want to know for sure.” She looked around. “I want to know who didn’t do it, who the innocent ones are. Trouble is, I don’t know how to figure that out.”
She began walking up the gallery, just looking. Her boyfriend, a retired detective, once told her that the first thing a detective does at a crime scene is just look. Look at everything.
With no idea what she might be looking for—and the crime scene more than twenty-four hours old—Betsy had no real hope of finding anything. But she had nowhere else to go, no better ideas, so she just walked along very slowly, letting her eyes take in whatever they could find.
She paused and went for a closer look at a suite next door to Belle’s. Not the door, but the frame around one of the bay windows. A little more than knee high there was a tiny gouge in the wood.
Jill, coming along behind, said, “What is it?”
Betsy looked up at the room number. “Is this one of those handicapped suites?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can we find out?”
“Sure.” Jill got her cell phone out and went into its record of recent calls. One was to the Consulate Hotel.
A very tired voice—Marveen’s—asked, “How may I help you?”
“This is Jill Cross Larson up on nine with Betsy Devonshire. Can you tell us if Room 924 is a handicap suite?”
There was a pause, possibly while Marveen drew on reserves of patience she didn’t know she had. But her voice was polite as she said, “No, it isn’t.”
“Thank you.” Jill disconnected and said to Betsy, “It isn’t. Why did you want to know?”
“Because there’s a nick in the wood right here, and it’s right about the height where Cherry nicked the doorway on her way to the bathroom.”
Jill stooped for a closer look. “Well, well, well,” she said. “Nice and fresh, too. Of course, maybe Cherry—or Ms. Watson—visited someone in this room. Not Belle, this isn’t her suite.”
“No, someone lay in wait right here for Belle to come out.” Betsy was very gently touching the little gouge that had damaged the paint and exposed raw wood. Jill straightened and hit the button to redial the front desk. “I’m so sorry to keep bothering you, but who’s staying in Suite 924?” she asked, listened, and said “Thank you.”
“Who?” asked Betsy.
“Kathy Knight from Galena, Illinois.”
“I suppose we could ask her if she knows Cherry and had her in for a visit here at the Market.”
Betsy shook her head. “Damn. I don’t want it to be Cherry. I like her.”
“I know you do. But there’s also the fact that the way Belle was lifted over that railing is the only way Cherry could have done it. Every other way I tried, I had to be standing.”
“But we need something more concrete. What we have is barely circumstantial.”
“There’s the gouge.”
“A guest got clumsy with a suitcase,” said Betsy.
“There’s the conspiracy!”
“To stop talking to us. It had to be Cherry who did that!”
“What makes you think that?”
“It would never occur to Eve to do something like that! She wanted to talk to us.”
“But Lenore—” started Jill.
“She didn’t know Eve was here, remember?” Betsy bit her thumbnail. “It’s the money, probably. Belle was stealing Cherry’s money, the settlement she got for her accident. Cherry needs that money to live on.” Betsy turned and walked to the railing, looking over, but not seeing anything except the details in her mind. “This whole thing is about need. Cherry needed to keep her money, Lenore needed to stay at home, Eve needed to hang onto her new self.”
“And Belle?” asked Jill.
“Belle was very focused on her own needs, that’s why she didn’t help people because they needed help, but because it fed her ego. I’m sure she felt dependent on Cherry because of the money Cherry brought, and so stealing it was her way of declaring her independence.”
“What are you, a psychiatrist?”
“I wish. Then I could help people instead of getting them arrested. Now, Jill, whose need was greatest?”
Jill grimaced. “All right, Cherry’s.”
Betsy nodded vigorously. “Lenore said she’s already working on a new design; Eve went home to her family and got a new job. Cherry couldn’t go out and get hit by another bus, could she?”
“And if she lost a big enough hunk of her settlement, she’d have to go on welfare. I can see where that prospect might make her desperate.”
Betsy said, “So what do we do now? You don’t have a gun or handcuffs, and the Nashville police can’t get here. Should we go get a key to her suite and break in?”
Jill smiled. “Down, girl. There’s no rush. Where’s she going to go? Nobody can leave the hotel until the snow melts. She’s safe right where she is. Let’s go tell Lieutenant Birdsong what we’ve got.”
They went down to the lobby to talk with Marveen. Marveen insisted that she be the one to call Lieutenant Birdsong. They all retired to the chilly hotel office while Marveen placed the call to police headquarters. She was transferred around for a while, to her increasing impatience—which she displayed only in a tendency to speak a little slower while a muscle in her jaw started to throb.
At last she hung up and said, “They’ll have him call us.”
Five minutes later the phone rang. Marveen snatched it up, but “Consulate Hotel,” she said in her usual business-friendly voice. Then she smiled. “Lieutenant Birdsong, this is Marveen Harrison. I want to tell you that the Minnesota policewoman you said could investigate the death of Belle Hammermill says she knows who murdered her.” Pause. “Mmm-hmmm, yes, murder. And she’s right here.”
Marveen handed the receiver to Jill. “Sergeant Larson here, sir,” said Jill crisply, and listened. “Yes, we’re sure, though the evidence is largely circumstantial.” Pause. “We interviewed her yesterday afternoon, but she denied any involvement.” Longer pause. “Well, we’ve since gotten more information, including an alibi that’s fallen apart, and a mark left on the wall up near where Belle Hammermill was thrown over that closely resembles the marks left by the axle of a wheelchair.” Pause. “Yes, sir, we’re pretty confident.” Longer pause. “All right, yes sir. We’ll be here.”
Jill hung up and said, “He wants us to wait until he can get here. He says at least an hour, maybe two. Let’s go have lunch.”
Godwin saw them coming and waved them to his table, where he was sitting with Terrence Nolan. Lunch was chicken soup made with split peas and noodles, or beef stew made with potatoes, carrots, and corn. And more biscuits. Beverages choices were iced tea, sweet iced tea—“You know you’re in the south now,” remarked Godwin—coffee, bottled water, and a choice of lesser-known brands of soft drinks. Even though Jill and Betsy were among the last to arrive, there was plenty to eat.
Betsy chose the beef stew. “I wonder what we’ll have for dinner?” she asked, but no one answered. The soups were good and filling, and there was an apple cobbler for dessert, à la mode, if you liked.
Godwin announced that he’d been in every suite, and bought only items sure to sell. In return, Betsy and Jill hinted to Godwin that there had been a break. He was so torn between continuing his happy flirtation with Terrence and hearing the details, that at last Terrence realized something was up, and excused himself.
Godwin watched him go with a sigh, then turned eagerly to Betsy and said, “All right, boss, dish!”
So Betsy did.
After lunch, they told Marveen they’d be waiting in their suite and went up in the elevator.
Jill had dared to annoy Marveen one more time by asking to borrow the bottle of white glue. She sat down with superb patience to finish her Santa pin, stitching the fastener on the back of a piece of maroon velvet, then gluing the velvet over the white felt. She got out her new scissors and began to trim the velvet, being careful not to cut a thread in the process.
Godwin went into his suitcase to find his knitting and worked on another of his endless series of white socks.
Betsy opened the crewel kit of grazing sheep and exclaimed over the beauty and varied textures of the fibers, then settled down to stitch a sheep with white wool, varying the direction of the long and short stitches a bit to suggest the roundness of a belly or the fullness of a chest. All the fabric offered was a thin black outline of the picture and an occasional hint about the length of the grass the sheep stood in.
They couldn’t talk, there was nothing to say. At last Godwin turned on the television and found A Christmas Story playing on one channel. Ralphie was imagining himself saving his family from robbers by the use of his trusty Daisy air rifle.
“What do you want for Christmas, Betsy?” he asked.
“For this to be over.”
The phone rang at last. Jill picked it up, listened briefly, and said, “Thanks.” She hung up. “Lieutenant Birdsong is in the lobby.”
Godwin, to his disgust and chagrin, had to stay behind. “Ratza fratza margle shuga,” he said, imitating Ralphie’s father, and sat down again with his knitting to watch more of the movie, his manner rather pointed.
Birdsong was resplendent in high, lace-up rubber boots, heavy wool trousers, and a red plaid hunting coat with traces of thread on the back where his hunting license had been cut off. He had hat hair. “It’s warm, at least,” he explained. “And my feet are dry.” With him was a female police officer, creaking with authority, gunbelt, and bulletproof vest. Birdsong did not introduce her.
“Now, where is this suspect of yours?” he asked.
“We don’t know,” said Betsy.
He looked at her, his shaggy eyebrows raised very high. “You mean she got away?” he asked in a soft, dangerous voice.
“No, sir,” said Jill. “She’s in the hotel. Probably in her suite. We went up a while ago to ask her if she had a second wheelchair with her, and while she refused to answer us, it’s likely she’s stayed in her suite to guard against us coming in for a look.”
Jill placed a call from the house phone. “Hi, Cherry, it’s Jill Cross Larson again. Still won’t talk to us? All right, we understand. Yes, ma’m, thank you.” Jill’s voice was crisp, but polite.
Jill hung up and said, “None of our three suspects will talk to us.”
They took the elevator up to nine. They had no more than gotten off when the door to Cherry’s suite opened and she rolled out. She froze on seeing Birdsong and the female police officer, started to back in, then instead rolled out and started down toward the other long side.
Jill immediately turned and ran the other way.
“Halt!” Birdsong barked. “Stop, stay where you are!” He gestured at the female police officer, who bolted out in front of him, running past the elevators.
Betsy stayed with Birdsong.
Cherry kept going, leaning so far forward she all but disappeared below the level of the railing. The wi
re wheels of her chair twinkled between the balusters. She reached the end of the gallery and started down the other long side. She was moving very fast, she would be at the elevators before either the uniform or Jill could reach her.
Then the chair stopped—apparently Cherry saw Jill coming up the gallery from the other end. The chair turned, only to face the uniformed woman coming toward her. She guided her chair to the railing, and her hands moved, setting the brakes.
She looked across the open space and saw Birdsong and Betsy and grinned at them. She reached up and grabbed the railing, pulling herself up.
Jill put on a burst of speed, but she was going to be too late, Betsy could see that.
Suddenly a mighty voice roared from below:
“DON’T YOU DARE!”
Cherry, disconcerted, hesitated, looked down.
So did Betsy. So did Birdsong. It was Marveen, standing in the middle of the atrium floor, at the very end of her patience with these people.
Before she could recover, Cherry was gripped from behind by Jill. The female police officer was there two seconds later, grabbing at Cherry’s fists before they could do any damage.
It was a little over an hour later before Betsy and Jill came back into the suite. Godwin was agog for details. “Tell me everything!” he demanded.
So Betsy began to describe the dramatic arrest. “Oh, I saw that, I came to watch,” said Godwin, “and I saw them take Cherry down in the elevator. Marveen should be an opera singer—what a voice!”
“I think she would have apologized if Lieutenant Birdsong hadn’t said she deserved a medal for it,” said Betsy. “She has a strong sense of decorum and the yell was her attempt to bring it back to her hotel.” Betsy smiled. “She wanted people to stop flinging themselves and others over her railings, and for the police to go away and take any riff-raff with them.”
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